Caught Between the Taliban and Tehran

As options disappear for Afghan refugees caught between repression at home and hostility abroad, one young woman recounts a life shaped by war and exile

Middle East Uncovered uses pseudonyms to protect our sources in Iran and Afghanistan.

My name is Shahrzad, and I’m an Afghan immigrant girl living in Iran. I was born and raised in a traditional Afghan family where, thankfully, both of my parents valued education above all else. From a young age, I was passionate about learning, growing, and becoming independent. My parents always supported my sisters and me. They believed deeply that girls deserved the same opportunities as boys: to study, to dream, and to succeed. For as long as I can remember, I dreamed of becoming a doctor. The little girl in me believed anything was possible.

But life had other plans.

When the Islamic Republic of Afghanistan fell to the extremist Taliban regime in 2021, everything changed. Overnight, we lost our identity, our home, our friends, and the fragile freedom we had. My father, a former military officer, became a direct target. For six months, all I remember is running, hiding, and separating—our family constantly on the move, trying to avoid capture.

On August 14th, one day before the Taliban entered Kabul, we moved to a relative’s house. We already knew going back home might never be possible, and I was overcome with fear and grief. Those days were our final ones in the country where I was born, raised, and had spent nearly 17 years of my life.

We returned briefly to our home only to destroy every piece of evidence linking my father to the former government. That night, we burned his documents and photos—his certificates and achievements that chronicled a lifetime of service. Our once peaceful home was filled with dread. A threatening phone call put us all on edge. We barely slept. The next morning, the doorbell rang, and I burst into tears, terrified the Taliban had found us. Thankfully, it was just the new tenants. We were forced to rent out our house just to keep it from being seized, as so many others were in the months that followed.

That was the hardest moment of my life—packing up everything, saying goodbye to my childhood home, and fleeing in fear. We left for Islam Qala, the border between Iran and Afghanistan. It felt like a horror movie that kept getting worse.

In early 2022, we crossed into Iran. The U.S. evacuation was over, and my father, like thousands of other military personnel, was left behind. But Iran brought its own harsh realities. We were no longer being hunted, but we were not welcome, either.

Still, I had hope. I dreamed of finally being able to attend university—something I had never had the chance to do in Afghanistan. But my status as an Afghan refugee made it nearly impossible. First, I was told I couldn’t apply. Then, after persistent visits, I was told I could—but only for low-demand majors and only if I paid double the fees. All my academic records were ignored. Nothing I had achieved mattered because I am Afghan.

Living in Iran became a daily battle—mentally, emotionally, and physically. Even before the war with Israel and the U.S. worsened the situation, we faced racism and exclusion. We were denied basic rights: to own property, to study, to work legally, to open a bank account, or even to buy a SIM card. Refugees live in a constant state of invisibility.

Eventually, I decided to take action. I began studying English at a local institute. Since I had studied at an English-based school in Afghanistan, I excelled quickly and completed the course in three months. The institute offered me a job as a teacher. I am grateful for the people there—especially the branch manager—who have been kind, welcoming, and supportive. Not all Iranians are the same; many young, educated Iranians share our dreams of peace and freedom.

With a job secured, I dared to dream again. In 2024, I was accepted into the online education program at the American University of Afghanistan (AUAF). It wasn’t the major I originally wanted, but it was a chance to learn—and for that, I am deeply grateful.

Despite some moments of light, life here is darkened by fear. Iran’s government silences dissent, shuts down the internet at will, and targets minorities. As Afghan refugees—“Afghanistanis,” as they often call us—we face racism at every turn. Even our legal documents don’t protect us. One day, my bank account was suddenly closed, and my SIM card was blocked—all because my visa was close to expiring. At the bank, I was treated with hostility and humiliation, despite having valid documents. Iranians were treated with kindness. The contrast was unbearable.

Since the Israeli strikes on Iranian nuclear sites, life has only grown more terrifying. Suspicion and fear have spread. Afghans are now being accused of spying. A young Afghan student was recently stopped at a checkpoint. They searched his phone, found videos of the strikes, and arrested him. Days later, we still don’t know where he is.

We are caught between two countries that don’t want us—adrift, belonging nowhere. To the Taliban, my father remains an enemy. Since 2021, we’ve received countless threats and warnings. We know exactly what awaits us if we return: imprisonment, torture—perhaps worse. We’ve seen it happen to others like us. We know how this story ends.

Now, we live in limbo. To not have anywhere to call home is something I would not wish on my worst enemy.

As Afghan girls, we have faced two layers of oppression: in Afghanistan for being female, and in Iran for being Afghan. We are voiceless, homeless, and unwanted. Every day feels like walking a tightrope, one wrong step away from disaster. This pain is not just mine, it is shared by hundreds of other girls and refugees like me, whose voices go unheard. Our prayers unanswered.

No one deserves to live like this.

We are clinging to the last threads of hope, but even those are beginning to unravel. Still, we endure—clinging to the possibility of living without fear, of belonging somewhere. Of finally being more than just someone else’s problem.

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